


joke

by cherrychenji



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Anorexia, Anxiety, Blood, Depression, Eating Disorders, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Insomnia, M/M, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Purging, Self-Harm, no proofread
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:21:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29363901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrychenji/pseuds/cherrychenji
Summary: "hyung, is life just a sick joke?"
Relationships: Qian Kun/Everyone
Kudos: 36





	joke

**Author's Note:**

> this story is written as a coping mechanism, these are my thoughts and if you think they are going to harm you, please skip. please read the warnings and the intro before proceeding. 
> 
> warnings. mentions of suicide, eating disorders, depression, anxiety, mentions of self harm, starving, insomnia, emotional abuse?, purging, faint mentions of blood, sleep paralysis mention. 
> 
> **if you are uncomfortable reading this please skip this chapter.**
> 
> just a reminder, i suffer from anxiety, depression, dissociation, anorexia, and self harm. im in no way trying to romanticize mental illness, this is what it feels like living with this. this is what I experience almost everyday. im writing this as a coping mechanism. i know kun has insomnia, but im in no way trying to diagnose kun, this is not an observation, we probably will not know what kun struggles with on the daily. This is pure Fiction. 
> 
> just a reminder, everyone's experiences to these kinds of mental illneses can be different, everyone can react a different way. so im portraying my own experiences onto kun for this writing

kun wakes up, head pounding. it feels like loud speakers at a party, the constant booms are the only thing you hear, and you are barely able to tell the music apart. 

his vision blury from all of the tears he shed. some already dry on his pathetically thin, and sickly face. hollow cheeks and dark circles. pitiful. 

he sits up in his bed, slowly. all of the poorly wrapped bandages barely hanging around his forearms were slowly unwrapping due to all of the moving around he was doing in bed. 

he stood up a bit too quickly for his body's liking. coloured sparkles covering his vision and making him dizzy, causing him to have to sit down on the bed again. after a while of trying to calm his head down, he got the courage to stand up again, but in a speed where his body didn't have to desperately scream for help. 

he makes his way to the bathroom. forcefully dragging his weightless body, he was almost so weak he couldn't even stand on his own two legs without having to hold onto something. how pathetic. 

kneeling down to get the bandages from the sinks drawers. scrunching up his sleeves of his sweater and slowly taking off the ones he put on last night during a breakdown.

noticing how almost all of the blood luckily seeped into the cloth. his cuts weren't very deep, but deep enough to draw blood. he quickly replaces the band, and drags down his sweater to cover his dead looking arm. 

he washes his hands, seeing the dry blood going down the sink. despite having absolute no will to live, he still cleaned his house. his younger friends and family needed to see him presentable and mentally stable. there's no way he could let them see him in his most vulnerable and unsettling position. 

his house looked like a dream. the kitchen, living room, bathroom, everything but his room. a bunch of blankets and random things laying around. his safe place. he never went to the kitchen to eat, and very rarely went to the living room to spend time in there. he very thoroughly cleaned the bathrooms as well. he could clean any thing really. anything but his room. it would take so much work and motivation, something he doesn't have. 

he goes to the toilet after getting snapped back into thought. slowly bending down. his attempt at sticking his finger down his throat, in order to get whatever food he ate 3 days ago failed. there was no food in his stomach to throw up. nothing at all. he would end up puking his stomach acids out instead

his tonsils hurt. they hurt so bad. it hurts to swallow, speak, eat. it hurts. it hurts so much that its even another reason for him not to eat. 

it's been 3 days. it seems hard at first, but when you start getting the hang of it. the pain starts to feel good. the hunger feels good. the feeling of your stomach trying to crawl out of your body like a spider, being so desperate to find something to eat. 

it feels good because he deserves it. remember that sandwich you ate on Saturday? yeah, it made you gain 10 pounds. everytime you eat, you look down and see your body increasing in size. each bite you take, an inch is added to your waist, thighs, cheeks, and stomach. 

he walks towards the kitchen. the fucking kitchen. the place he hasn't gone to in over 3 days. he needs to at least eat something if he's going out to meet ten. ten will definitely notice something is off. it's okay, he'll just throw up the food later. it's okay. 

his cooking skills are used in feeding his "kids" as he prefers to call it, or his members. making an abundance of food to feed 22 mouths. every mouth but his. they always ask why he isn't eating, but he denies, saying he ate while cooking. 

he ignores the spike of pain everytime someone comments on his body. all he could do is hide behind his happy and unbothered facade. he nods along with them, he knows it's true. he knows it he fucking knows it. 

he continues on his day, like always. his members occasionally barge into his apartment without notice. so he needs to be prepared at all times. his room door is always locked, and is covered head to toe. 

. 

he was preparing his meal. just the sight of it made him queezy. the knife he was using to cut the crazy amount of vegetables was slowly dragging over his skin. slowly and slowly pushing deeper and deeper until it made a wound. 

he was sad, yes. but sometimes he just harmed himself just so he can harm himself. nothing specific has to happen, it's just used as a coping mechanism. he deserves the pain, right? 

those sick thoughts that kept him up all night didn't help at all. making him loose sleep for a day or two. staying up for an alarming amount of time even though he desperately wanted to sleep. he wanted to get rid of those thoughts, he wanted to dream. 

his dreams were nice most of the time. he would live in absolute paradise with his friends and family. no tears no nothing, pure happiness. 

but he would of course have more triggering dreams that would stay with him until the end of the day and make it hell. 

dreams are weird. you wake up when you don't want to wake up. and you don't wake up even when you desperately want to. 

the constant worrying. oh how awful. 

you worry about someone to an extent you want to kill yourself. if i don't tell them to stop, something bad is going to happen. if you let them do that, something bad is going to happen. you start paying attention more to your surroundings and the faint noises you can hear the other person make. everytime a small scream or everytime they make their voice louder makes your heart race. 

he didn't even know how it got this bad. yeah as a kid he was usually very anxious and had unordinary dreams. 

it might've been because of how neglected he was by his family. well more emotional abuse than anything really. he didn't live in the right environment. he was envious of all of his friends that got to play outside whenever they wanted, get to go to each other's houses etc. yeah his parents were strict, but strict to the point if he got anything below a B, he would get all forms of entertainment and wouldn't be able to talk to his friends anymore. 

he barely cried in front of his parents. a normal child would be able to talk to their parents about their problems, and ask for advice. but all his parents would do is manipulate him and make him feel guilty. 

"am i not a good mother? why do you feel this way? did i not do enough to help you?"

"i mean, its basically your fault, you shouldn't have dressed like that"

"why are you blaming me? I'm your mother, i get to control everything you do until you leave my house, understood?"

. 

johnny walks in unannounced while kun is sitting on the couch. the smaller man was wearing shorts, and a big sweater that johnny left at his apartment a few days ago. 

the Chinese boy was watching 600 pound life to make himself feel better, be was so distracted he didn't even notice the six-foot two man walk in. johnny looks at his thin legs. bruises covering his knees and most of his legs. 

johnny sets his things down quickly and rushes over. concern fills his face as he sits down on the couch next to the smaller boy. gentle and big hands caressing his legs. "kunnie,, what happens baby?" he softly asks, noticing how kun is about to burst out into tears. "u-uhm i fell" he managed to speak out before sobbing into tears. 

johnny opened up his arms. inviting the other to sit on his lap. 

"im so tired hyung, im so sick, im so so sick"

johnny didn't say anything, caressing circles over his back. his spine is the only thing johnny can touch other than his skin. he remembers when kun actually had a normal amount of flesh on him. his waist was soft to the touch and easy to squeeze, nice plump thighs, and adorable chubby cheeks.

he noticed the deep cuts on his arm. even though they were wrapped in bandages, the blood managed to go through the cloth. 

. 

"hyung, is life just a sick joke?"


End file.
